


Going Home

by Jrade



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017)
Genre: Arguably Canon Compliant?, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Canon-Possible, Delphine doesn't die!, Double Agents, F/F, Fake Character Death, Faking your death for fun and profit (or at least for your girlfriend), Fix-It of Sorts, Kissing, Lorraine is two steps ahead of everybody, Or at least a realization that it wasn't broken to start with, Quadruple Agents?, triple agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 07:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11732619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jrade/pseuds/Jrade
Summary: Lorraine Broughton, that's what they called her - had for years at MI-6. That's all over and done now, though, and she finally gets to go home. It's all she wanted, really: and she getsexactlywhat she wants.





	Going Home

The debriefing took a very long time. She expected that. They gave her a medal. She hadn’t expected that.

...not that she could wear it anywhere. She didn’t exist. There were perks to that, though.

A long, long time she’d been away from home - too long, they’d suggested, and she’d agreed readily with a husky chuckle. Somebody made a joke about punching out early for a burger. The joke was that she was never off the clock: whether they _knew_ that was the joke or not.

Still, after it was done, she really was hungry. Healing up a few dozen bruises and lacerations will do that to a woman. She gave her debriefing, said her spiel, had the pictures taken and shook all the right hands. She got her medal.

She got the keys to her car back out of the lock-up where they’d been for years and years. Jimmy had done a good job pickling the engine and keeping the battery topped, and it started up on the first turn. Nineteen sixty-seven had been a good year for cars, or at least it had been if you asked her cherry-red Corvette C2 Sting Ray.

Or if you’d asked her. But then, if you asked her, she’d only give the answer you wanted anyway. Anything you asked her - right up to her name. Some people said she didn’t even remember what it was anymore. They were wrong, of course: she remembered it _all._ For a long time now, though, she’d been called Lorraine. It was as easy a name as any.

The dust lifted readily from a tired road as she ripped along it at speeds that would be considered either unsafe or exhilarating, depending on who was in the passenger seat. There was a shitty little diner on the side of the highway. There was _always_ a shitty little diner on the side of the highway. It was one of the things she loved about home.

A bell dinged as she stepped through the door - the obligatory cheery-smiled and dimple-touting waitress asked to seat her and she said she’d just sit at the counter. She grabbed a menu with a smile and slid onto the red vinyl stool, brushing her bottle-blonde hair out of her face. Sitting up felt good for her back.

“Come here often?”

Her eyes flicked over to take in the tan-skinned beauty sitting next to her, red-dyed hair and all. “Now and again. Haven’t been for a while - what’s your name?”

The lady smiled, a slightly sad smile. “Sam. Not what my parents named me, of course.”

Lorraine chuckled, wondering what the chances were of this joint having vodka. None, of course. “Well, my parents didn’t name me Lorraine either. Name hardly matters.”

“Then what do you call out,” Sam inquired with a crooked grin, “when you’re clutching at the sheets?”

Lorraine’s eyes narrowed slightly, her lips - still battered - curling into a smirk. “Could always just say _God.”_

Sam stifled a laugh, dropping her eyes for a second before raising them again. They were so wide, almost impossibly so. “Did you hear about Berlin? I heard the wall came down.”

“Think I heard it on the radio,” Lorraine shrugged with a sigh, “but I can’t say it means much to me. I’ve been out of town for a while, just looking to get my life back. How about you?” She smiled to the waitress and ordered a burger, double bacon, slathered in barbeque sauce. It had been too long.

“Oh, me?” Sam shrugged. “Just got out of a job. I’m thinking I might be a poet.”

Lorraine quirked an eyebrow over to her with a clandestine grin. “Hair like that, I think you’d do better as a rockstar.”

She twirled a bright red-dyed lock around her finger with a grin. “Do you like it?” Lorraine nodded with a chuckle and Sam’s grin widened. “I was hoping you would. I just have one question, Lorraine - and I’m sure it’s one you’ve heard before…”

Slowly, Sam leaned in and pressed her lips gently to Lorraine’s mouth. It all flashed back through her mind again - the first time in Berlin, meeting at the club, the gun, the noise, the bed. The bug. The setup. The fall.

The second setup.

After all, Delphine didn’t want to be in espionage, but she _was_ pretty good at it. What better way to get out of the business than to be murdered in your hotel room by the infamous double-agent Satchel? It was easier to set that up than to set _him_ up, and that had been bought, no question.

Nobody would hold an axe over her neck anymore, nor over anything she cared about. Lorraine was done being a pawn - she was the queen, and she set the board as she chose. “Delphine”, the French operative, had died in the hotel - she had Satchel confirming it on an audio recording and everything. No body would be found of course, but bodies went missing all the time.

Sometimes with a little more life left in them than their murderers might expect. And Lorraine knew from personal experience that the girl could _really_ hold her breath.

“You know that’s the second time somebody’s asked me that question,” Lorraine breathed as their lips parted and her eyes slid slowly opened, “and I still can’t say I know what it means.”

It was all written right there in her wide eyes, though - Sam, Delphine, whatever name she went by didn’t matter. The question was clear: why me? Why help me get out, why lie to fake my death, why now, why risk it, why _me?_

“Like I said,” Lorraine smiled softly, more genuinely than she had in years. “Trying to get my life back.”

CIA, MI-6, KGB, she’d played for them all. She’d _played_ them all, and she’d be damned if they kept her from what she wanted. She interlaced her fingers with Sam’s as the burger came, and picked it up one-handed. It was sloppy, grease dripped down her wrist, and the barbecue sauce burned her mouth as she bit into it with a moan and her eyes rolled back a little.

“God,” she murmured around a mouthful of food, squeezing Delphine’s hand, “I missed home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I see no reason why this couldn't be canonical, really. It's always a little odd to me when spies in movies don't know enough to fake being strangled successfully; to kick and shout and fight, and then flag, and weaken, and rasp, and lay still... and still have plenty of breath to survive. It's not like he had a chance to check her pulse or anything - I'm not saying that it necessarily _did_ happen, just that I think it _could_ have.
> 
> Anyway, this is also an experiment for me in trying to write something shorter. I've not been good at keeping my word-counts low, historically, and I'm trying to develop the skill, so... feedback's appreciated! Thanks folks!


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